


Lie Back and Think of Jazz

by pluto



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the  Year That Never Was, Martha can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie Back and Think of Jazz

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Awesome Bingo](http://plutokitty.livejournal.com/26475.html#cutid1) that foxysquid and I are doing ;). Prompt: "A Heavy Burden and a Light Step."

Martha is lying on her back among the ruins of a school, trying to relax enough to sleep. It's hard to steady her breathing, remind her heart that it can stop racing, tell her muscles to unknot and uncoil. She stares up at the stars, surrounded by broken cinderblock and twisted metal.

She hasn't slept in three days because she can't relax. She's exhausted and she knows she must sleep, knows she's started to get sloppy--that's the last thing she needs, slipping from internment camp to resistance hideaway to Toclofane-patrolled construction zones. But knowing she _must_ sleep only makes her less able to. So she lies awake and she stares up at the stars and she thinks of the Doctor, worries for him and for Jack and for her family, trapped up on the Valiant, at the Master's mercy. She hates being here, away from them, unable to do anything for them--reminds herself, as she has so many times, that she _is_ doing something for them.

Still, the weight of what she has done, has yet to do, seems crushing lately. She has moved through much of Europe, into the Middle East and Africa, travelled through South Asia and now into China. But so much more lies ahead of her, seeming yawning, impossible. She tells the stories, spreads what hope she can, but lately it feels like for each bit of hope she gives, she loses a bit of hope for herself.

It's exhaustion, she tells herself. She just needs to sleep. Close her eyes and think of nothing. Of sheep. Of counting. Of the Doctor. Jack's lovely smile, Tish's laugh, her mother's not-entirely disapproving frown.

But the Toclofane that dogged her steps through India worry her. And the team of men the Master sent after her--they nearly closed in on her in Tibet. What if her perception filter has started to fail? What if the Master's figured out a way to detect her through it? He is a genius, after all, if an evil one.

Martha begins to despair. Soon the sky will begin to lighten in the East, another night swept away without sleep. She needs to be by the road by dawn to join the work crew that will pass by, so she can slip into the Yumen workcamp...

A crackle of static from somewhere to her left makes her jump. Before her surprise can become fear, the static gives way to a young-sounding woman speaking in Chinese; she waits a moment and then she begins to understand--the TARDIS may have been mutilated and warped into a paradox machine, but some remnant must remain, translating Earth's languages for Martha through her TARDIS key.

"--for joining Rebel Radio once again. Remember, tomorrow's channel will be White Tiger. Now, on to the reason you've all tuned in!"

The night air suddenly fills with the giddy, gaudy sounds of big-band jazz: trombones and piano and clarinets. Martha's so surprised that for a moment she laughs out loud, forgetting to be silent and cautious and tense. Then she worries that the sound will attract scouts, whether human or Toclofane; but she has her perception filter, she reminds herself, and though she waits, tense, nothing comes.

Eventually, despite her best efforts to resist, the music draws her in with the bright notes of _Chattanooga Choo Choo_. It makes her think of Drih, where she and the Doctor ran giggling like oversized children through orange clouds that lit up with something like lightning every time their feet touched down.

She imagines they are dancing there now, to the brassy trombones and the bold piano. His hand is firm against the small of her back and she looks at their feet, glowing with every step, and that's when she realizes she must be dreaming, because she can feel the misty dampness of the clouds against her skin.

The Doctor whirls her about and now she can see the music is coming from the open doors of the TARDIS, healthy warm light spilling out of her, and Martha laughs with delight. "I didn't know the TARDIS liked jazz," she tells the Doctor, and the Doctor raises an eyebrow, smirks, and replies,

"Oh, the TARDIS has great taste in music."

"Good," Martha says, "Because I'd been worried about her." Martha's not sure that makes sense, but the Doctor doesn't seem to notice. He tells her:

"Don't worry, Martha."

And she says, "How can I not?"

"Just think of jazz," he says, which somehow reassures her. And then he yanks her into a mad, complex jig of some sort which oddly resembles the macarena, and things stop making sense from there, even dream sense.

When she wakes, the sky is just starting to lighten and the unseen radio is silent. She wastes a little time looking for it, thinking that maybe she can sort out what channel "White Tiger" might be and keep listening as long as she's in range of Rebel Radio, but she doesn't find it. Wondering if she didn't simply dream it up as well, she moves on.

But as she walks to the next rendezvous point, her step is light--she even skips and step-ball-changes once or twice--and under her breath, she hums _Chattanooga Choo Choo_.


End file.
